


Lost and found

by theproseofnight



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Clexa Week 2020, F/F, Love at First Sight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:01:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22992127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theproseofnight/pseuds/theproseofnight
Summary: Lexa has just moved into the neighbourhood. Clarke has just locked herself out. It's hot, the sun is scorching, and neither of them has any chill. Lots of thirst though.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 32
Kudos: 620





	Lost and found

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr prompt: _I’m your new neighbour and I got locked out, help!_ Something to keep us warm through winter :)

The heat is sweltering. With the air conditioning conveniently going down when the mercury shot up, the porch and its large overhang is the only safe space from the furnace of Lexa’s new house. Temperature climbing well past balmy into steamy, even the walls are sweating.

There is not a single dry pore on her body. Regret about her morning run soaks through a second change of threads. In hindsight, the two showers were ineffective and wasteful given the personal rain cloud of perspiration that’s been following her every movement. Lifting a finger—or any minute exertion other than breathing—is an Olympic-level activity at this point.

The old rocking chair creaks to and fro, straining under the weight of Lexa’s effort to create an artificial wind. The wooden planks afoot groan under the stress of its forceful rhythm. A handheld fan was all but useless and thusly abandoned, its plastic blades grateful about the transferred responsibility. Also abandoned is her to do list, among which fixing the verandah’s squeaky floorboards will have to wait until her capacity to hold a hammer doesn’t involve wanting to launch it into the sky at the raging ball of fire.

Unaccustomed to the humidity or anything above Yellowknife’s freezing temperatures, every few minutes is spent wiping at her brow and flapping the underside of her workout shirt. The micro fibre’s high performance moisture-wicking system has entirely given up. Her hair is equally a lost cause, its curls surrendering to the Southern sun with limp defeat. The lemonade pitcher next to her had provided precious respite at first but by the second glass the ice had melted—her cold drink is now steaming sugar.

She takes a sip anyway, not heeding the burn to her chapped lips because there is no quenching the thirst that’s been slowly building ever since she noticed the scene unfolding before her. For the past half hour, staying hydrated has been a survival problem of a different kind.

Across the lawn and beyond the narrow residential street is her new neighbour. They haven’t formally met yet but this is a first visual introduction of which Lexa has little to complain about the disruption to her peaceful attempt at cooling off.

Extremely short denim cutoffs that would make Daisy Duke blush cling onto full, generous hips while a white v-neck struggles to contain other curves. Blonde hair is messily tossed up into a bun. Exposing neck and collarbone and cleavage that Lexa has to valiantly train her gaze to remain respectfully upwards. Given how much pale, creamy skin is on display, it’s a gargantuan ask.

Lexa can’t be sure if the heat has gotten to her head to create an optical illusion, hallucinating a hot girl on her hands and knees in intense negotiation with a shrub, or if it’s because she’s not used to seeing anyone with less than at minimum ten layers of clothing on.

The unusual appeal to her senses aside, that’s not what has solely kept Lexa’s interest or what had her initially hesitate to walk over. It’s the harried movements. Some sort of adapted gardening technique that involves overturning every potted plant followed by cursing.

Lexa bites back amusement watching the poor perennials and annuals, as well as an unheard party on the other side of an animated phone call, be on the receiving end of increasingly creative language. From this distance, the words should meld into one another, undistinguishable, yet, like picking up on a satellite radio station that’s broadcasting to her ears alone, she delights in the private program. Tuned into the profane mouth cursing like a sailor, unaware of how the expletives carry clearly across the airwaves to an unknown audience.

Before long, she’s no longer satisfied to be a passive bystander. Compelled into action—maximum curiosity piqued—when the half naked curser throws arms up in the air before dramatically and whole-bodily falling down to the ground. Gardener becoming one with grass. It makes her chuckle, smile widening at the theatrics.

Lexa sees her opening.

After braving the inferno behind her to retrieve a couple of items from inside, she takes decisive strides to breach the mirage.

—

Clarke can’t believe her luck.

She snaps her phone shut, tossing it aside after letting out a grunt of dismay. It slides across blades of dry grass that are wilting by the second, groaning at the friction. Leftover morning dew on the leaves tips provides momentary coolness to her overexerted body, only, Clarke realises the damp feeling is none other than the perspiration collecting at her lower back.

The sun blazes on relentless. No pity for her plight. She uses an arm to shield her face from its persistence. Grumbling obscenities into the crook of her elbow.

_Mother-sucking apple strudel of shit on a pogo stick._

Before Clarke can further dwell in despondency, there’s faint laughter then a polite throat clearing coming from above that catches her attention. It also catches her breath when her arm lowers and eyes open to reveal a beautiful figure, hovering over her and casting a shadow, providing temporary shade.

From a curtain of pasted wet hair, she can make out pouty lips, sculpted cheekbones, and a constellation of freckles that lead to amused and curious eyes. Summer-kissed skin glisten attractively as a bead of sweat slides down over the slope of a ridiculously cut jawline where a hint of a smile fights to break through, softening its sharp edge.

Whoever this person is, appearing out of nowhere and backlit by halcyon sunlight, is pretty. Incredibly, stupidly pretty. Which is why Clarke says what she does for their first exchange of words.

“You look like a drowned rat who’s been left in the spin cycle for too long.”

The interloper laughs. The sound clear and warm. God, her laugh is pretty too. It’s bright and stirs something unexpected in Clarke. The smile that does break through, blossoms in her chest.

At her unglamorous description, a timid hand with notably long fingers reaches up to pat down the side of frizzy hair that’s undecided between taking flight and dying a slow death. It’s a mess soon given up on to tuck unruly strands behind rather tiny ears. Clarke struggles against a press-lipped smile watching their tips burn red, the colour seeming to deepen under the appraisal.

Merciful, she drops her gaze elsewhere. _Mercy_ becomes the operative word when it tracks down past a tight black sports top to tighter spandex shorts—both leaving little to speculate of the fit body they’re meant to cover—and concludes on a set of tone legs that runs a length way beyond any past relationship she’s ever had. Like, dangerously long.

Clarke gulps.

Shit. She’s screwed. So, so, _so_ screwed.

(Or rather, wants to be screwed.)

“You’re hot,” Pretty Eyes tells her. The same set that widen in delayed realisation at the double entendre and unintended forwardness of her contracted eloquence.

Clarke raises an eyebrow, encouraging a blush to rush across already rosy cheeks. More prettiness.

“Right to the point, I see,” she remarks, amused.

“That’s not what I meant, you’re not,” is quickly course corrected when Clarke raises the other eyebrow to match, “I mean you are, stunningly, um ... extraordinarily...”

“Do tell.”

“... enjoying my floundering too much.”

Clarke laughs, taking pleasure in the earned pout, which sidelines her slight guilt.

The ramble trails off into an indiscernible grumble before a glass of lemonade is set down next to her in nonverbal clarification and capitulation. Any disappointment that the fumbling has stopped too soon isn’t given room to grow because with one tactical bite of a lower lip and a tip of chin, the fumbler transforms into the charmer.

“Let’s try this again. We’ll blame the language lapse on my brain melt from the walk over, on top of the gorgeous view I wasn’t expecting to encounter in this heat.” She gives Clarke a significant look before cocking her head to the two-storey fixer upper to elaborate, “That’s me. Moved in last week and wanted to say hi,” then gesturing to the lemonade, “it looked like you could use this,” ends on a devastating smile accompanied by an outstretched hand, “I’m Lexa.”

On autopilot Clarke shakes it, noting its softness. There’s a spark at the contact not missed by either as they hold on, gazes locked, for far longer than social convention. Many have described Clarke’s blues as electric but staring now into brilliant and vivid green, she thinks those people are colour blind. Its magnetism double-times the skip in heartbeat the charge from their joined hands had generated. Tugs at something that’s been out of reach for some time. It takes another throat clearing, and a gentle squeeze of hand prompting, for her to offer her name in return.

“Hot. Er, Clarke.”

“Nice to meet you, Hotter Clarke.”

“Haha, just, Hot Clarke is fine.”

Lexa smiles. Ear-splitting. Another tug.

After finally letting go, Clarke lifts herself up on her elbows and reaches for the drink, mouthing her thanks for the thoughtfulness.

“I _am_ hot. But what I am, also, is very much locked out,” she bemoans after wiping residual lemonade from the corner of her mouth. “Fucked, to be precise.”

“Ah. Hence the assault on your marigolds?”

Clarke scrunches her brows in confusion until she turns her head to follow the pointed gaze to the tipped over pot of flowers. Clusters of blood orange and bursts of yellow stare back at her helpless. Dirt spilled about.

Not buying into their sympathy display, she squints at them in betrayal for turning up empty handed. Her eyes soften when Lexa unexpectedly goes to right them. The same gentle care taken when she returns to join Clarke seated on the grass.

“Spare key is not where it’s supposed to be,” Clarke laments, dropping back down in thwarted foresight. “Burying it in dirt seemed like a good idea at the time. Hadn’t counted on me not remembering exactly where.”

“And the master key?”

“Annoyingly, right where it’s normally supposed to be.” Lexa chuckles as Clarke discloses their likely location sitting in the bowl on her side table in the foyer, five feet away from where they currently are. “These new self locking door systems and my scatter brain memory after twelve hour shifts do not make the best combination.”

“Hmm, can’t say it was a problem I had to worry about living in a yurt.”

Lexa smiles at her confused look and fills Clarke in on her northern post as a private contract search and rescue pilot in The Northwest Territories.

“So, Canada, eh?”

“For a while. Norway and the Swiss Alps before that.”

Wiping sticky palms against dry grass, Clarke remarks, “Quite a change then.”

Lexa nods then shrugs. ”As beautiful as snow-covered mountains are, for once I wanted to be able to step outside without crystal tears forming when I do so much as breathe.”

“This seems an extreme in the other direction.”

Clarke waves her hand to indicate the hot air, glaring at invisible, overexcited molecules in accusation. Lexa laughs again and it’s Clarke’s new favourite sound. She becomes acutely aware of the butterflies forming in her stomach and the heat rising in her chest, stretching out the bottom hem of her tee to create a path for cross ventilation in an attempt to lower the temperature. After mild success at cooling down, it ends up rolled over her stomach, looped through the v opening and tied by the knot under her breasts. The makeshift bikini top sacrifices Clarke’s propriety for a welcomed chill.

When she looks up up, her loss heat seems to be a gain on Lexa’s cheeks. Seeing her impulsivity be the cause of Lexa’s continuing redness, Clarke decides to own it. Spread-eagles her arms and legs out like lawn sunbathing isn’t a weird thing white people do.

“I’m not opposed to the new scenery. Something tells me it won’t be too hard to acclimatise,” Lexa says giving Clarke another meaningful look, the green newly a shade darker.

“Tell that to your hair,” Clarke teases.

“I’ll have you know, a well-placed cowlick is severely underestimated,” Lexa replies, taking umbrage and sporting a light-hearted scowl. “It’s all the rage north of the 49th parallel.”

“I’m sure.”

Once Clarke stops laughing, by some unknown compulsion, without giving it a second thought, she encroaches Lexa’s personal space, disregarding the intake of sharp breath at her crowding, to smooth out the hair away from her forehead.

“There, better,” she says, a soft whisper, admiring her handiwork. The boldness turns to self-consciousness on registering Lexa’s deer in headlights look when Clarke re-grants her adequate breathing airspace. Offers an indirect explanation for the breach. “It shouldn’t be a problem fitting into the South now.”

A shy ‘thanks’ later, Lexa goes on to tell her about other assignments in more moderate climates with better coiffure conditions, while doing a poor job of being subtle about casting furtive glances at Clarke’s general personhood—and her upper half in particular.

“Too bad you can’t search and rescue my keys,” Clarke comments after a pause but then feels bad for trivialising a very serious profession.

Luckily, Lexa seems nonplussed by it.

“Actually,” she says, getting up and offering a hand to pull Clarke onto her feet too. Lips curling with intention. “C’mon.”

That softness of smile is how Clarke finds herself kneeling beside the flower bed with dirt under her fingernails, digging next to her neighbour for her spare key. With methodological precision they comb through every square inch by square inch of soil.

Clarke would have given up halfway through, having already done a fruitless round of manual excavation on her own, albeit employing a far less studious raking strategy, but persisted in solidarity because of the adorable, deepening forehead wrinkle on Lexa’s concentrated face. She’s never met a stranger so invested in a positive outcome for another person, especially without having any idea of who Clarke is. Despite Clarke’s unhelpful knowledge of the key’s Point Last Seen or its Last Known Location, unable to offer up a verified witness sighting or an inspired clue, Lexa forges on, pawing away with determination.

“Not what you thought you’d be doing on your first weekend in Arkadia, huh?” Clarke ventures.

“I don’t mind getting my hands dirty,” Lexa says with an exaggerated wiggling of fingers that makes Clarke laugh. “Not my usual call of duty but happy to make an exception. Anyway, I could use a distraction from this heat, among other things.”

Amused, Clarke shakes her head, not seeing the logic behind doing physical labour to avoid sweating. Lexa reaches over to spread her fingers, repositioning them into the claw-like form she had instructed Clarke make for maximum efficiency. Like raking a Japanese sand garden, she insisted the discipline would yield productive results.

“I didn’t realise they teach Zen-Buddhist philosophy in flight school,” Clarke quips.

“Actually, I learned this technique from watching a mamma polar bear dig through snow and ice to find fish for her cub.”

“Really?” Clarke asks, in awe of nature’s magic.

Her awestruck gaze is met with a blank one.

“No.”

Lexa drops the ruse, facade breaking, unable to hold in her laughter.

“Asshole.”

“Polar bears usually don’t eat fish, unless food is scarce,” she informs, no longer mocking but still giggling.

Clarke is prone to misplacing things but rarely has the retrieval mission ever been this fun. She laughs too, knocking Lexa by the shoulder and causing her to fall over from her crouched position.

“Such violence.” Lexa feigns injury, rubbing her elbows. “This is what I get for helping?”

They return to task in quiet companionship interspersed by more stories and more laughter. Clarke doesn’t know for how long they’ve been at it, conversation is Lexa flows so easily that time ebbs with it too, but by the time her fingers are brown and pruned, they’re still empty-handed.

“Really, Lexa, we don’t have to keep going. I’ve taken up enough of your time. Raven’s in a meeting but says she’ll back as soon as she can.”

“Raven?”

“Yeah, she told me to try not to get flambé in the meantime. Doesn’t want to come home to Lobster Clarke and have to relive the aloe vera incident after the wedding. I don’t think this is what she had in mind about me keeping out of the sun.”

She feels Lexa stiffen next to her, movements stalling, causing Clarke to turn her head to see why.

“Makes a lot of sense, of course there’d be someone,” Lexa mutters to the ground, her form seeming to deflate. The words are mumbled as if they weren’t meant to be said aloud. Following a gentler nudge to her shoulder this time, she smiles, though it’s noticeably, and oddly, smaller than previous attempts. Lexa rephrases more clearly and audibly after taking notice of Clarke’s confusion and awaiting attention, “Sorry, I mean, your wife sounds sensible.”

With an ill-timed sip of her drink, Clarke nearly chokes on the lemon pulp. Lexa pats her back to help with the coughing. “Jesus, never,” she splutters. “God, no. Rey’s a friend.” Given their ~~low~~ high key flirting up to this point, the distinction seems pertinent to emphasise, “ _Just_ a friend. I’m temporarily third-wheeling at their place. Free room and board for this green thumb.”

The marigolds seem to perk up in pride at her statement. Lexa appears to similarly perk up as well, looks around, eyes shining with renewed interest at the varieties of greens and florals. With renewed interest in Clarke’s eyes.

“It’s lovely,” she says without taking her gaze off once connected. “Overwhelming in the best way.” Where others take a manicured approach to lawn aesthetic, Clarke leans towards maximalist, nothing like a zen garden. A collision of daisies and roses and marigolds and irises. Lexa appears to be absorbed in the latter. There’s another charged moment before Lexa comes back from some faraway thought, “Well, it was lovely before we unearthed everything.”

Back on track, they spend the next minutes trading stories while plowing forth. Besides emergency missions, Lexa’s work in the sub-Artic circle also involves supply drops to far-off communities, whose well-tended gardens have introduced her to the rich variety of plant life up north despite the punishing, barren conditions. The creamy-white mountain avens with their yellow centres are among her favourites, which bloom briefly but profusely each spring. As ground-hugging and sun-loving plants that grow in evergreen semi-shrubs and thrive in meadows and rocky ridges, Lexa admires them for their beauty and resilience.

“They’re the Northwest Territories floral emblem and Iceland’s national flower. Personally though, I like the soft, velvety feel of their leather-like leaves.”

“I haven’t come across them,” Clarke says, soaking up the lesson.

“They don’t do well in humid climates. But if you ever want to see them, I could take you up.”

“In your ...” Clarke asks, making a twirling motion with her index and pointer split in a v-shape.

Furrowed brows transition into a smile once she gets the gist, chuckling. “Yes, in my helicopter.”

Clarke feels part horrified and part excited at the prospect of being air lifted. They haven’t even broached the topic of dating and she’s already considering joining Lexa in a death trap, entrusting her one-pieceness to her neighbour. She makes a disgusted face. “No, thank you.”

“Fear of flying.”

“Appreciation for living.”

“If you start walking now, I’m sure the avens will still be there in a decade,” Lexa muses. “Luckily they’re not as endangered as their small and fragile cousins, the eastern mountain avens in New Hampshire and Nova Scotia.”

Clarke is grateful for the subject pivot. Not ready to divulge the reason behind her preference for ground transit.

“Better keep those away from Raven and her wife then,” she notes, switching to a conspiratorial tone, “they can’t keep a cactus alive. Too much water.”

“Speaking of, want to make me wet?”

It’s a health and safety blessing not to have been in the middle of drinking this time.

“Excuse me?”

—

“Get wet with me?”

The second go at the question doesn’t fare any better.

Lexa looks skyward for deliverance from her own stupidity and has to restrain her hand from wanting to smack herself for the mis-phrasing and lack of smoothness. Reasonably, living in a remote area for years leads to depreciation of social skills, but it’s no excuse for the next inanity out of her mouth. “Water is wet.”

“You’re an observant one,” Clarke says laughing. “They let practically anyone fly 800lb, multi-million dollar equipment these days.”

Lexa laughs too, playfully pushing at her shoulder. It had been a pleasant surprise the ease with which she and Clarke had gotten to know one another in such a brief time. Occasional gaffe aside, their banter is a welcomed change after so long spent in isolation. A girl with hair spun from gold and a laugh dipped in stars made lowering Lexa’s guard instant. Like filtered sunlight through alpine saps, Clarke awakens something dormant in Lexa after a long hibernation. The mutual attraction clear with how often attention was paid to Lexa’s lips whenever she talked. It makes Lexa want to talk more.

Learning that Clarke is an actress and not a doctor like she had presumed, a famous actress who she doesn’t recognise because the last time Lexa watched television Buffy Summers was the sardonic blonde kicking ass in an apocalyptic world, a humble actress who spends her time between onset calls pruning her best friends’s shrubs or painting them on canvas, it all made Lexa want to learn more. To extend their time together. Preferably, somewhere else that will give her liquid courage to ask Clarke out.

Word choice wanting, Lexa gathers her wits to say, “I have a pool, smart ass. It was the main selling point. The house is one floorboard creak away from collapsing but the swimming pool is state of the art. It comes with water.” Clarke nods in understanding, the amused glint growing by the second. Lexa chances, “As much as I’m enjoying getting pricked by rose thorns, I could do with a dip. Want to join me?”

Lexa figures Clarke is already halfway undressed for it and it’s a better waiting option than sunburning. She hopes the answer is yes.

The tip of a soft, pink tongue draws Lexa’s attention away from Clarke’s eyes to her lips, which are being moistened in contemplation. She _really_ hopes the answer is yes.

“Lead the way.”

She feels the muscles pull wide on her face, the size of her smile almost hurts.

Minutes later and after changing into swimwear followed by some rearranging of patio furniture, Lexa is sat on her sun lounger with a bottle of lotion at the ready on Clarke’s word that it’s totally normal to be applying sunscreen to a pretty girl she only just met. Totally normal for her neighbour to be wearing Lexa’s spare bikini set that is most obviously several cup sizes too small, the triangles covering just enough for Clarke not to be considered naked. Totally normal that Lexa’s heartbeat hasn’t stopped pounding since taking Clarke’s hand and leading them into her backyard.

On the flimsiest of excuses that they should thoroughly heed Raven’s advice about Clarke’s sensitive skin, Lexa had jokingly offered her help for hard to reach areas. She hadn’t expected Clarke to actually take her up on it, nor to scoot over onto the edge of her chair and sit in front of Lexa between her legs, hair pulled aside and over a lightly pinking shoulder.

Granted permission by a wordless nod after an audible swallow, Lexa gently massages the lotion onto Clarke’s back. “Sorry,” she says softly when Clarke hisses at the coldness, and quietly promises, “it’ll warm up soon.” She ignores the whimpered ‘Mhm’ to concentrate on her task. Starting at the upper half and making her way down, each press of her pads of fingers cause a hitch of breath.

Seeking a diversion, Lexa asks about Clarke’s latest project. The Two Hundred, turns out, is an original limited series cable special about two warriors leading opposing fractions, who fall in love with one another on the battlefield and must choose between head and heart.

“That doesn’t sound very original, Clarke.”

Clarke laughs. “It’s not. Star-crossed lovers in a dangerous time is as old as time and it’s been done ad nauseum.”

“So, what’s groundbreaking about the Two Hunnies?”

Lexa’s intentional slip causes Clarke to laugh brightly, her back shaking and consequently causing Lexa’s fingers to slip and graze a sideboob. She clears her throat to cover up the moan threatening to come out.

“The gay leads don’t die,” Clarke croaks, seemingly as affected by the intimate touch.

“A high threshold of cinematic standard, I see,” Lexa replies in a high voice.

“You’ve no idea.”

“Hmm,” Lexa assents.

By tacit agreement, a stretch of silence follows as she resumes her prior trajectory, the dangerous path towards Clarke’s lower back and the dimpled surface before it dips beneath the string bikini bottom.

“Is this ok?” She checks in.

“Mhm.”

She can’t be certain but she feels the slow roll of hips back into her palms as Lexa spreads the last of the lotion, kneading gently into soft skin. It’s sensual and absolutely too homoerotic for Lexa’s unattended need, which has been far too neglected in recent memory. There’s hardly any lotion left but she continues the action—making productive use of her thumbs—just to feel the movement under her hands. Lexa’s throat is already dry, all the liquid long travelled south, but it’s practically a desert by the time Clarke’s head falls forward and fails to suppress a low guttural moan.

“All done,” Lexa whispers, squeezing at Clarke’s hips where her hands have relocated to safety. Reluctant for the act to end when there’s no more lotion to viably keep up the charade.

“Thank you,” Clarke says, an unmasked husk in her tone. When she turns her head back to give Lexa a grateful smile, it’s like a punch to Lexa’s chest with how dilated her pupils are.

The sexual tension palpably rises with the way Clarke’s eyes darken fixating on Lexa’s lips as she breathes out, “You’re welcome.”

Involuntarily, Lexa’s hands slide round to Clarke’s stomach and start the same gentle motion she had adopted on Clarke’s back. She applies the same pressure felt in her lower abdomen to the one flexing under her attention. With eyes locked on each other, Clarke faintly gasps when her fingers move lower to the top of the bikini fabric, the tips crossing its thin line to make contact with curly hair.

Their chests are heaving. Breaths coming in laboured. Clarke’s gaze returns to her mouth, more intense than ever. Dripping with intent. With want that’s mirrored by the throbbing between Lexa’s legs.

“Do you want me to do you?” Lexa asks. The wording belatedly registers when Clarke’s blues disappear almost entirely. “Your front! Do your front. Ugh, not do. Rub. Cream, cream on your front.”

“Your industry should really consider better vetting processes.”

Lexa presently doesn’t have the mental acuity to correct her misfired synapses or give thought to pilot hiring practices. Clarke wraps her a hand around her wrist, encouraging Lexa’s hand to continue lower. Clarke whimpers when her searching fingers find wet heat.

“Can I take care of this?” Lexa asks, barely above a whisper. There’s no misunderstanding what she wants this time as one finger skated through damp folds.

“Yeah,” Clarke starts to answer, the same scratch in her voice, licking her lips, “but first, can I—”

Lexa is already nodding before the end of the question. She closes her eyes, leaning forward. The kiss ...

... never comes.

A phone rings. Jolting then both out of their stupor.

—

Clarke hangs up to find Lexa has moved into the pool. She takes a moment standing on the deck to watch the glide of taut muscles across the serene azure as Lexa laps the 10 metre length. Between alternating strokes and efficient head turns and flawless leg kicks, Lexa moves like a well oiled machine.

Clarke has never felt this level of physical attraction to someone before. This degree of chemistry. Not even A-list costars. And never this fast.

For blinding minutes, when Lexa had emerged from her house in a coral high waisted, one-shoulder set to arrange towels over the lounge chairs and adjust the sun umbrellas to desired angles, Clarke lost all functioning ability. It only came back with the sound of a small crash to register Lexa had walked into the side table and wearing a colour on her cheeks and bare chest more pink than her swimsuit. The pieces of what happened didn’t click into place until Clarke followed Lexa’s stupefied gaze back to her own hand’s paused placement at the top of her breast, sticky with sun lotion. Involuntarily, preening at the attention, Clarke’s chest puffed forward, her hand finished its downward journey, spreading the oil. Lexa promptly jerked her head away. The pink becoming an unhealthy shade of red. Clarke blew out a held breath, comforted to know she isn’t the only one struggling with the visuals.

Jaw-dropping aesthetic aside, there’s something endearing about Lexa. Completely genuine and absolutely disarming. She’s funny and awkward. A combination of clumsy and confident that somehow works landing her decidedly into the territory of charismatic. It has Clarke thoroughly smitten and erasing the usual borders of a first encounter.

“You missed a spot,” was an invitation to crossing lines that she uncharacteristically accepted without hesitation. Clarke’s standards normally involve extensive courting or at least copious amounts of alcohol. With Lexa, only an earnest smile.

Lexa’s incredibly soft but firm hands were well on their way to causing Clarke’s internal combustion until the near kiss brought her to the brink of orgasm on anticipation alone. It had taken unknown restraint after the first drop of lotion not to turn around, straddle Lexa’s lap and grind out her desire to completion. It had taken far more willpower—a depleting resource in Lexa’s presence—not to throw her phone away at the disruption.

She’s broken from her staring when Lexa breaks the water’s surface to wade towards the pool’s edge by Clarke’s feet. Clarke sits down, sinking her legs into the water. Sighs in bliss at the respite the partial immersion offers from both the heat of the sun and her growing attraction to the half-submerged swimmer. Propped up on her forearms over the tiles and lightly kicking feet behind her, eyes a twinkle, Lexa is a casual kind of gorgeous. Clarke is a not so casual kind of infatuated.

“Raven?”

Clarke dumbly nods.

“Do you have to go?”

She shakes her head.

“She’s running late,” Clarke answers distractedly, following the drip of water down the side of Lexa’s temple until it finds home in the dip of her collarbone. Too preoccupied with its next direction of travel, she fails to notice the minor relief on Lexa’s face that their time wouldn’t be cut short.

When nothing more comes from Clarke, Lexa quirks her head cutely like she’s wracking fo a conversation starter. After their interrupted closeness, it’s not awkward per se so much as taking caution not to give in so soon to the inevitability of latent mutual desire.

“So, why gardening?”

Clarke chuckles at the left field question but takes on the non-sequitur in stride. “As a kid I always had my head in the clouds with stories and make believe. Hence acting. Gardening was my dad’s way of keeping me grounded so he wouldn’t lose me entirely to the sky. He loved daisies.” Clarke smiles at the memory.

“White flowers with yellow centres. A man after my own heart,” Lexa offers kindly. It brightens Clarke’s smile before dimming again. The pain is an ever-present throb, though much less acute now.

“He passed away a few years ago and gardening is how I stay connected with him.”

Lexa nods, a quiet sympathy that appears rooted in some form of empathy. Her hand coming to gently lay on Clarke’s knee, say as much.

“So, why search and rescue?” Clarke asks, lobbing back.

“As a kid, I was always good at hide and seek.”

Clarke stares blankly, unsure of what to do with that information. When Lexa laughs, she splashes water at her in reprimand.

“Jerk,” Clarke name-calls but it lacks any sort of bite. She’s crushing too hard at this point for her to harbour anything ill-will against Lexa.

“I like puzzles and having a sense of purpose. Helping people, even if it’s just a key for some, always felt like my calling,” Lexa shares, still playful but a tinge of sadness has seeped through. Her sincerity turns somber. “I lost someone too and never wanted to feel that helpless again.” Lexa doesn’t elaborate but Clarke does squeeze her hand in shared understanding about loss. “Anyway, according to my first flight instructor, I have a knack for looking in places that no one would normally give consideration. So all those times hiding in the closet did pay off.”

Ambiguity resurfaces about whether Lexa is serious or just messing with Clarke again. Her returned smile, at odds with her next words, provides a clue. As do the waggling eyebrows.

“No, seriously. Mom’s walk-in closet was massive.” Clarke pushes at her shoulder, laughing. The giggling turns into a fond smile when Lexa ruminates, “Her red cloak also proved to be the perfect napping spot.” Imagining a toddler Lexa curled up in soft fabric sends a fluttering feeling.

“Speaking of red,” Lexa says, eyeing Clarke with intent, giving the borrowed, crimson swimwear a once over, “aren’t you going to come in?”

“I’m not the greatest swimmer,” Clarke admits. More like a scared swimmer but she keeps that to herself. She doesn’t expect her confession, however, to make Lexa disappear under water. “Lexa?”

Instead of an answer, Clarke startles when Lexa emerges between her legs and hooks them around her waist, back to Clarke’s chest.

“Well, hop on then,” Lexa suggests but gives her no time to consider before she’s gliding forward, taking Clarke with her.

A scream caught in her throat between surprise and delight, Clarke immediately winds arms around her shoulders for stability as Lexa piggyback swims Clarke around the perimeter with alarming facility and speed despite the extra cargo.

“Lexa!” Clarke splutters as water splashes and whips at her. “Slow down,” she urges in vain between peals of laughter.

Instead, “Hang on,” is the answer she gets and they go even faster.

Breathing heavily and smiling widely, Lexa finally stops in the shallow end after running out of steam. She turns Clarke around so they face each other, wading water and rewrapping Clarke’s legs around her, doing all the work to keep them afloat.

“No worries, you’re safe and sound with me,” Lexa says. A soft assurance. Gentle and kind. She tightens her grip around her body. “I’ve got you.”

That line shouldn’t work but it does. Her heart thumps in response. Her stomach swoops.

Safety isn’t exactly what worries Clarke at the moment. It’s falling fast for someone she’s only known for less than two hours. For the mischievous glint reflecting back at her and the full, upturned lips that are far too self-impressed. For the stupid grin that spells nothing but trouble and makes her infatuation grow tenfold.

“Putting me in danger so you can save me?” Clarke bats water-heavy lashes, “Gee, thanks,” and deadpans, “my hero.”

“What can I say,” Lexa answers, shrugging with put-upon humility while shifting Clarke’s weight in her arms to make her point, “it’s a heavy mantle, but someone has to wear it.”

Clarke laughs, looping her hands behind Lexa’s neck, mindlessly threading through damp hair. The gesture earns a throaty, low humming from Lexa who closes her eyes.

They settle into a peaceful quiet. Spinning in slow, silent circles.

“My real estate agent warned me about pool break-ins during the height of summer.”

“Oh yeah?” Clarke plays along.

“Uh-huh,” Lexa nods, faux serious. “I was told to watch out for unexpected visitors.”

Putting on her best selling actress voice, Clarke mimes, “Welcome to the neighbourhood. Keep an eye on 307, known to lose keys and wonder astray.”

“Gasp, how did you know? Those were her exact, specific words. Be careful of beautiful, heart-stopping blondes in a two piece,” Lexa says. “Wish she’d told me sooner, I wouldn’t have taken so long with the down deposit.”

“Huh, strange. The bikini clause wasn’t in your marketing packet?” Clarke jokes.

“Believe me,” Lexa says, “if I had read the sales fine print more carefully, I would have signed for over-asking.”

Clarke laughs again, but it quickly peters away seeing Lexa’s gaze focus on the origin of the sound. It dies altogether when her eyes shift to the water lapping at Clarke’s breasts. The refracted light making them look comically larger than they are.

“It’s basically the local dress code here. Less one trucker hat.”

“Sounds like a _hard_ ship but I think I can get on board,” Lexa says, voice hushed to a whisper volume.

Clarke would be embarrassed by the emphasis on ‘hard’ because of the strain of her nipples pulling the bikini taut but it’s difficult to feel anything beside arousal with the way Lexa looks ready to consume her whole.

The tension from before the disruptive phone call returns with a loud crackle. On a sharper intake of breath, Lexa’s hands round to Clarke’s ass. Cupping with purpose.

On that note, she’s guided towards the corner of the pool. Her back hits gently against the tile.

“I really want to kiss you.”

Clarke swoons at the honesty.

“I really want you to, too.”

Lexa closes the gap, bringing her lips into soft contact with Clarke. A soft exploration at first to map the fit and feel of each other’s mouths before she draws Clarke’s bottom lip into a gentle suckling. When Clarke opens up, needing more, Lexa’s tongue meets hers in the most intense way. A first kiss has never tasted like this before. They change angles and Clarke thinks she doesn’t want to taste anything else ever.

Clarke isn’t the greatest swimmer and, as a rule, typically shies away from the deep end but if it’s anything like this kiss she would willingly dive head-first to experience such depths over and over again.

“Wow.”

They kiss some more, each kiss better than the last. In addition to having a new favourite sound, she’s picked up a new favourite activity.

“Can I kiss you again?” Lexa needlessly asks after a pause for air. When Clarke licks her lips, prepared to go endless rounds, Lexa gives them a chaste kiss but shakes her head. “Not there.”

The true ask becomes apparent. She looks into darkened eyes that evince the same arousal she feels low in her belly. The answer is yes before there was even a question.

On Clarke’s nod, for a second time, Lexa disappears under water. While this time Clarke was given more notice about her aim, she was nowhere ready for the outcome. Lexa’s mouth is on her sex, as expected, bikini bottom pushed aside. Lips and tongue as soft and exploratory below as they were above. Much, much less expected is the rush of sensations that vibrates against her opening. Warm breath flutters against Clarke’s bare centre. Lexa is _blowing_ bubbles. Into her.

“Holy fuck.”

Clarke’s hands whip out to grip against the pool’s edge, only she slips because everything is wet. Lexa is there to catch her with an arm around her waist. The next breathless minutes are spent with Lexa taking her apart with the most juvenile, playschool action. Between bubbles and deep presses of her tongue, Clarke comes in an embarrassing, record time. But it feels so incredible that she doesn’t care when Lexa comes up for air wearing the smuggest expression. So incredible that she draws Lexa into a hard kiss and grinds desperately against her stomach searching for friction to prolong the ecstasy.

“Do me. Cream my front,” Clarke parrots the earlier version of Lexa’s fumbling between kissing breaks. Desperate for more. “Fuck me, please.”

“Don’t let go this time,” Lexa softly commands, complying to Clarke’s demand.

She slips a hand between their bodies.

—

Lexa is fingers deep in Clarke. A tangle of want and need as they move together. Sweating and grinding, pushing and pulling and pulsing. Gentle encouragement soon turn into frantic urging.

A hand tangled in Lexa’s hair, tugging, Clarke whispers near the shell of her ear, “Please.”

With Clarke’s moans growing louder, whines sharper in pitch, Lexa can’t take it anymore. The desire to devour is all consuming. She lifts Clarke by the waist and scoops her out of the water, but remains herself in the pool. Unheeding Clarke’s startled yelp at the display of strength, she lays her flat on her back on the deck. Pulls Clarke’s lower half swiftly towards the pool edge, positioning her legs over Lexa’s shoulders, her entrance meeting Lexa’s mouth at the perfect height. Clarke’s yanked down bikini bottom hangs helpless around one ankle.

Lexa apologises for the rough handling with the softness of her tongue which immediately spreads Clarke’s folds open. Flattens over their length in broad strokes before pushing forward, penetrating. Clarke’s reaction is immediate. She clenches around Lexa. Draws her in deeper.

The taste of salt and sweat and chlorine is a heady mix, but it doesn’t compare to the strangled sound of her name on Clarke’s tongue. The pure desperation of it, like Lexa is the last drop of lemonade in this humid landscape.

In the tundra, Lexa would go for days, sometimes weeks, without hearing another voice. The nature of her job means that there are frequent periods of isolation in desolate, remote locales. Some nights, nothing keeps her company but the sound of her own heart beating. Beyond the visible peaks of Baffin Mountains, on the far side of the taiga belt and the last of the boreal forest, lies a silent, cold hinterland. Where winter is year round and sunlight scarce. Clarke is warmth unlike anything she has felt. Her voice the first log of fire. Its rasp, like tinder.

She aches for more.

Lexa’s free thumb locates her clit while her other hand blindly cups for purchase. Both draw tight circles around the hardened surfaces found. In mismatched coordination with the pace of her tongue’s shallow thrusting, they turn Clarke into a mess of ragged breaths. A symphony of discordant cries and pants. Her heels dig hard into Lexa’s back.

Mouth and hand switch tasks when Lexa feels Clarke tightening. Sucking on her clit, she starts with one finger then two, working Clarke back up until a third easily slips in. Occasionally, she would blow on the hood of the throbbing muscle and time it with a curl inside. A throaty keening and full body shake would be her reward. She has to brace her feet against the pool wall with the way Clarke is rocking up into her mouth. Soon, Lexa must abandon the breast she’s been kneading in order to anchor Clarke by the hip as she fucks her faster and harder.

“Lexa,” is scratched out, a thin approximation of sound, no air for the vowels to fully form as Clarke’s clit swells between her lips and her imminent release thickens around Lexa’s fingers. She feels her own arousal spill at the quiver of Clarke’s centre. “ _Fuuck_.”

Face and fingers buried in slick warmth and soft gold curls, Lexa’s entire being is one frequency vibration away from turning from solid to liquid.

On a particularly harsh thrust, Lexa loses hold and Clarke somehow slips into the water. Lightning fast reflexes prevent her from falling through Lexa’s arms.

“You okay?” she asks, cradling her head in concern, to which Clarke just kisses off the worry. Hard. Like her next breath depends on being filled with the taste and feel of Lexa. Shifts her legs to sink down onto fingers that have managed to stay inside.

On tasting herself and at the renewed fullness, their mutual desperation increases tenfold.

They continue without a beat, Clarke pressed between the wall and Lexa. The new position allows her to put force behind her pelvis, to drive deeper, and it gives Clarke a new reachable surface to use the earlier claw—rake technique on Lexa’s back while continuing to kiss her breathless.

She thrusts, unrelenting. Spikes of heat shoot up and down her spine each time she makes contact with Clarke’s pubic bone to the base of her fingers at the knuckle. Her veins are filled with molten desire by this point. A wild blaze glowing from the inside out that reaches near infernal intensity when Clarke manages to sneak a hand between them to enter her.

Clarke swallows her surprise. Her gasp for air.

The euphoria skyrockets.

The years of solitude take on heightened sacredness of sacrifice if Lexa is able to experience this one raw and rapturous moment of togetherness. To feel so connected to another human being that the world could break in half tomorrow and she’d still feel whole for the rest of her life.

They come at the same time, crying into each other’s mouths.

Like daybreak over the frozen horizon, Lexa kisses the sound of the first crack of light into memory.

A tidal wave rushes at them and all Lexa can do is tighten her hold around a trembling Clarke. Somewhere in the distance, a supernova finishes its eruption but Lexa is only attuned to the tremor of Clarke’s lips as they slide in tender gratitude against hers.

“Where did that come from?” Clarke asks after catching her breath following their come-down. Bewilderment laced in her tone.

“It’s been awhile,” Lexa murmurs sheepishly once she feels solid enough again to answer. Hanging her head forward on Clarke’s shoulder, she hides her embarrassment into her neck. “Sorry.”

“Hey,” Clarke coos, lifting her head back then kissing her blush. “I’m not.” She kisses Lexa again, on the lips this time. Full and slow, Lexa is hopelessly pliant under the gentle care of her tongue. Under the caress of her awed gaze. “That was ...”

“Hot,” Lexa finishes for her.

They both laugh.

The laugh lines turn into worry lines. Lexa’s expression grows serious, needing to lay her cards on the table.

“I have a confession to make.”

—

Clarke is nervous for what Lexa may be confessing, which required she go inside while Clarke dries off outside.

Lexa had retreated upon relaying, “I’d invite you in but it’s disgustingly muggy with the a/c down.” A gentle, “I’ll be right back,” followed a sweet kiss to the apple of Clarke’s cheek.

After mind blowing sex and a more than pleasant afternoon together, the mystery of Lexa’s pending admission dampens the afterglow.

When Clarke is nearly done towelling off, Lexa returns in a fresh change of clothes, holding out a pair for Clarke to take. Her demeanour remains gentle but the guilty look she wears does little to alleviate Clarke’s nerves.

She forgoes changing into the sweats, setting them aside for the moment, and urging Lexa to join her seated.

Lexa sits down in front of Clarke, sharing the same lounger chair but body at a perpendicular angle to her. Taking Clarke’s legs to lay over her lap, she strokes her thigh up and down in a soothing pattern, like drawing up courage for what to say next. The other hand anchored to Clarke’s stomach. The gesture helps to regulate both of their increased heart beats.

“What is it, Lexa?” Clarke gently prods, taking Lexa’s hands into hers, stilling nervous drumming fingers.

“I really like you, Clarke,” Lexa says, pushing out a puff of air like a weight has been lifted from keeping it in. It softens Clarke.

Clarke observes her, refraining from interjecting just yet, seeing that there’s more to come and that Lexa’s confession is more than her fledgling affection for Clarke.

“It’s been a long time since I felt like this,” Lexa continues. “This kind of spark.” She laces their hands together. “I don’t get a chance to meet many people in my line of work. I mean, I do meet tons of people but the connections are always brief and usually during crises or times of extraordinary measures. But everyday? Not so much.”

Clarke nods, understanding.

“The bar scene at my last post typically consists of someone’s porch and bottom shelf whisky, if we’re lucky. Not many opportunities otherwise to come in contact with anyone besides the town’s kinfolk, which go back generations.”

“Must be lonely.”

“Sometimes. They are great. Just not gay. Not many women either.”

“Are you trying to tell me I’m the first woman you saw and had to have?” Clarke asks, teasing.

Lexa laughs, blushing profusely.

“ _No_. What I’m saying is that I really, _really_ like you,” Lexa repeats. “I didn’t expect how much and how fast I would ...”

She trails off but the word _fall_ has already formed on her lips. Clarke feels the same.

“I really like you too, Lexa,” Clarke says. Keeping the mood light, she tacks on, “I thought I made that _vocally_ clear.”

“You did.” Lexa smiles but then it’s coloured with regret, as she ducks her head to explain, “which is why I don’t want things to go any further without you knowing a key fact.”

The tone shifts.

Clarke feels the knot in her stomach tightening but nods nonetheless, prepared to hear all sorts of news. Possibly, Lexa is married, engaged or any degree of romantic attachment to someone else, which is highly implausible given what she’d just said and what they were just doing—and Lexa doesn’t seem the cheating type. Clarke would know. Or maybe, Lexa isn’t who she says she is and things are too good to be true. Yet, there’s been no evidence to point to anything but sincerity on the pilot’s part. As an actress, Clarke would also have been able to pick out inauthenticity and call bullshit from a mile away.

It’s none of the above.

Bashful and reluctant, Lexa pulls out a familiar looking piece of metal from her back pocket. “I found it long ago.”

Clarke stares. The spare key. Lexa’s pun catches up to her.

“Halfway through our digging, it poked out from behind the rose bush. I should’ve told you right away but I was enjoying our time so much and selfishly didn’t want it to end. But now I realise I took choice and agency away from you—”

Clarke climbs onto her lap and pulls her in by the shirt. Kisses her. Cuts Lexa’s rambling off with the intensity of her relief. Overcoming her surprise, Lexa kisses back. Her shoulders relax, she melts into the now familiar press of their mouths.

“I am angry and appalled,” Clarke responds, sounding the least of either, when they pull back. Her large smile the total opposite of perturbed at Lexa’s disclosure.

“You’re not mad that I’m basically a thief and a liar?” Lexa asks, looking hesitant to accept Clarke’s disproportionately overjoyed reaction.

“Stealing is questionable but lying s’fine.”

“Why’s that?” Lexa’s eyes narrow, catching on that she might not be alone in withholding information.

Clarke averts eye contact, finding interest in the scar of Lexa’s lower lip. She thumbs it in gentle sweeps hoping to derail Lexa off the trail.

No such luck. “Clarke,” Lexa prompts, suspicion heightening. Her hands that are wrapped around Clarke’s lower back slide down to cup her ass in a playful squeeze. “Is there something you’d also like to share with the class?”

Clarke shakes her head, still refusing to meet her eyes. She feels a new flood of arousal as Lexa’s fingers skim the edges of her bikini bottom. If the tactic is to subdue Clarke’s defences, it works.

She yields. Something that rarely happens but may be her new normal around Lexa.

“Ok, I have a confession too. I lied about Raven calling.”

“She didn’t call?” Lexa asks, looking adorably confused.

“No, she did,” Clarke says and bites her lip. Rolling the dice on Lexa’s receptiveness to her own deception, she reveals in a blustery stream of consciousness. “But from the inside of the house and not from the meeting that supposedly ran over as I had told you. Raven’s been home for awhile. And I lied because I didn’t want to go yet either, because you’re stupidly pretty and even more stupidly charming and you do this thing with your stupidly pouty lips and bushy eyebrows,” Clarke gestures in the general vicinity of Lexa’s face, “like _that_ ,” she huffs, “and make me say and do things that are also possibly, stupid.”

Lexa stares.

“Angry and appalled.”

She breaks into laughter. Clarke does too. Their gazes soften, grins mutually lopsided, realising they’re on the same page.

“You know, now to think of it, taking you to a second location was surprisingly easy.”

Lexa’s eyes are crinkling with mirth. But also with a look of open wonder, like she can’t believe that the sentiments are shared, their attraction and early attachment mutual.

“Like I said, stupid pretty.”

“Does this mean you can stay for dinner?”

Clarke stays.

Hours later the heat has finally broken. The setting sun a more innocuous orange glow. After Lexa grilled Alaskan salmon on the barbecue and they paired it with dill from Clarke’s herb garden that she sneakily ran home to snip while her housemates were none the wiser, they resettled on the lounge chairs to close out the night. Nursing a bottle of pale ale between them, passed back and forth in quiet rhythm, Clarke feels more content than she has in a long time.

Has never known silence to have such tenderness.

Opposite to Lexa’s quiet life, her days are filled with noise, with sets moving and sound checks and director’s shouts, with premieres and wrap parties and award galas. Outside of her garden, the trailer is the only peacefulness afforded during long shifts in faraway locations.

Here though, there’s an absence of sound save for the smallness of breaths they share and the clink of the bottle in exchange. A silence pregnant with possibility but no expectations. It’s exquisite.

She is in another set of Lexa’s clothes. A one-size too big hoodie and fleece shorts, both worn-in. As arms encircle around her, Clarke nuzzles into the scent of the old college sweater. Takes in the faded pinewood of the collar then inhales deep, direct from the source at Lexa’s neck.

Something of this crystalline pocket of domesticity feels like Clarke and Lexa are not so much an inevitability, but, a consequence. The outcome of the breath of a hello that’s finally been given air. The effect of a kiss that has the first stirrings, the first tangibility of, _maybe, her_. The result of a promise written a millennia ago in stardust, _yes, them_.

“I’m really glad you’re forgetful,” Lexa says softly into her hair, followed by a gentle kiss to her head. The gesture somehow more intimate than their time in the pool.

Leaning back against Lexa’s chest, watching the sky change colours, Clarke can’t help but think of how her day started to how her evening is ending.

A missing key.

Lost and found.

**Author's Note:**

> If you squinted while reading, this fits day 2 survival theme for clexaweek 2020 :)  
> [@theproseofnight](https://theproseofnight.tumblr.com)


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